Seduction on the Cards (21 page)

God— her life had just gone down the plughole. She’d have to give up work some time in the winter, and suffer the scorn and pity of her workmates. Or keep working while most of her wages went on childcare and someone else had all the joy of caring for her baby. 

She’d get fat and frumpy and feel sick all the time. Have to give up her lovely high shoes and never have enough money to buy pretty clothes again. Her mother might send her expensive baby clothes from Dubai, but she couldn’t imagine any other help being forthcoming. She could easily picture Edward wrinkling his supercilious nose in distaste. 

No-one would want to seriously date her—not if they felt she was on the prowl for a surrogate father for Alex’s baby.  

She cried for a solid half-hour. Wept until her eyes were red and stinging, and her make-up smeared and smudged. Until there were no more tears left to cry.

And then small cracks began appearing in the wall of misery she’d built. She began to imagine Alex’s baby. A piece of him to keep now he’d  gone. A dark-haired blue-eyed replacement for the man who’d stolen her heart and introduced her to pleasure she’d not known was possible.  

The sparks they’d struck off each other had burned very hot—apparently hot enough to fan a whole new life into being—and to burn a gaping hole in her existence.  

How ironic Alex had insisted on being so careful on the boat. Despite all his caution, the mail had somehow got through. 

She waited a few days before repeating the test, but the second result was the same.

“So...?” Sarah asked the following Saturday morning, having just returned from a few days on her parents’ farm. She’d left the topic alone for as long as she could bear to, but now both girls were in their pajamas, breakfasting in the sun. They’d unfolded a couple of beach chairs and an old card table in the little courtyard garden behind their flat. An olive tree flourished in half a wine barrel, and terra-cotta pots full of pansies and succulents sat beside it.

Kerri nodded as she nibbled toast. “It’s for real. Still no period, and I did the other test.”

“No question then,” Sarah agreed. “What will you do?”

Kerri looked at her sharply.

“No question there, either. Keep it of course. I couldn’t do anything else.”

“It’ll be hard for you.” 

“It’s do-able. I really think it is. I’ve worried all week of course. Juggled options. Hardly slept. You were well out of it at your parents’ place.” She sighed and stretched. “I thought I’d spent a lot of time thinking about Alex. This beats it hollow.” 

She took another bite of toast. “I’m so scared, Sarah, but I’m excited, too. I know it’s a huge step. I know I might fail—given my track record so far, I have to be realistic about that.” She drew a long slow breath of resolve. “I told you I promised him I’d give up gambling. So far I’ve managed that at least.” She gave a mirthless laugh. “Two whole weeks now. It’s a start anyway.”

“A good start,” Sarah agreed, privately wondering how long Kerri could keep her promise.

“Not long I know, but I’ve got a great reason to stay with it. A new person who’ll need looking after. Someone who’ll stick around. Someone who won’t leave me—like Dad or Mom, or my grandparents, or Alex all did.”

“Someone who’s so dependent on you, though.”

“I know I’ll need every cent, so maybe that’ll make me grow up a bit. My Grandfather left me most of his money. Did I ever tell you that?”

Sarah’s eyebrows rose.

“Mum lives in fine style with her second husband,” Kerri continued. “So Gramps made me his heir. I don’t think they liked Edward Browne too much, and Mum seemed to find a lot of excuses not to come home and visit, so maybe they were getting even for that.” She took another bite of toast and chewed for a while. “I’m not allowed to touch any of it until my twenty-fifth birthday—the old boy didn’t trust me the tiniest bit. I was so mad when the lawyer first told me.” 

She sent Sarah a sad smile. “My grandparents wouldn’t have expected to die for years of course, but the accident got them early.”

She gazed down at her toenails to gain a little time. Today they were strawberry pink, shot with gold flecks. She nibbled on her bottom lip and finally looked up at Sarah again. “I think,” she added slowly, “that if I’d been less of a tearaway, they’d still be alive. We had an awful row that last day.”

Sarah made a noise halfway between sympathy and disbelief.

“Seriously,” Kerri continued. “They were careful people and I...wasn’t that careful. I pushed the boundaries all the time. Behaved like I was about fifteen for far too long.” She took another bite of toast and looked away to where a huge bumble-bee was nosing into the pansies. “Maybe Grandpa was thinking about that argument and lost his concentration on the road.”

“Kerri, don’t you dare think like that!”

“Can’t help it. What if I’m right? And I got rewarded with his money. Not fair, is it?” She glanced back at Sarah, not bothering to hide the fact she was wiping away tears with the fingers of her free hand.

“And not provable, either. Stop worrying. Lucky you, I say. Well—rotten luck for them of course.” She left a short silence. “How much, um, more or less, if you don’t mind me asking?” 

Kerri managed a slight grin. “I’ll have to find out what the interest has added, but enough for a house or apartment. I’ll be twenty-five next year, Sarah. I’ll get the money exactly when I need it.”

“It’ll still be hard. Think of the solo mums at work. Julie has a rotten time of it.”

“Julie’s got three children and she’s paying a lot of rent on that place,” Kerri said, reaching for the marmalade.

“And Megan. She’s always on the bones of her bum.”

“A baby born when she was seventeen, and a dogs-body job where she earns almost nothing.”

“Which is about how much you’ll be earning, too. If you put the baby into childcare it’ll wipe out heaps of your wages. And if you don’t, you won’t have any wages to wipe out.”

“I might have a flat-mate paying rent? Would you be interested? Could you stand the thought of living with a baby?” She turned dark questioning eyes on Sarah. “You can say no—I won’t be offended. I’m sure I can do some freelance writing. And I’ve got another little scheme I’ve been thinking about. I can draw. Maybe do a storybook.”

“Ambitious, but good on you. What about Alex? You’ll have to contact him.”

Kerri’s face clouded over.

“Not yet—not for months. Anything could happen in the meantime. I wouldn’t want to…alarm him unnecessarily.”

“You can’t keep him in the dark forever. If he has a child, you have to tell him.”

Kerri shrugged.

“I’m serious,” Sarah insisted. “Fathers have the right to know. When I had that scare with Jeff last summer he was furious I hadn’t told him until I miscarried. He accused me of terrible things, including plotting a termination without his permission.”

“But you weren’t.”

“No—not fair is it? I wasn’t, and he insisted I was, and it split us up.”

“At least this possible baby won’t break me and Alex up,” she said. “We’re already broken.”

“Both tests positive. That makes it probable rather than possible. You’d better give up alcohol.”

“No gambling, no drinking,” Kerri mock-grumbled. “No sex either. It doesn’t leave me much fun.”

“Oh, I don’t know? You’ve still got some sausage costumes to make for the Sevens?”

Kerri pulled a rueful face. “I’d better be the salami,” she said. “A fat little salami. I found a piece of disgusting mottled pink fabric that’s ideal. Will I be showing then?”

“At around three months?”  Sarah waggled her hand in a maybe/maybe not motion and shook her head. 

“And you’re the frankfurter. Tan polyester.”

“Just so classy. Thank-you darling.”

“You’re nice and tall, so I thought that’d be appropriate. Debs wants to be a beef-and-cheese. I’m going to have to sew some little yellow ‘cheese’ squares onto her costume.”

“I’ve got an old lemon T-shirt you could cut up,” Sarah offered.  

“David’s very keen on being labeled ‘pork’,” Kerri mused. “And I think he’s got something rude in mind there.”

“Sounds like David. What about Clive?”

“A bierstick, what else? I bought a couple of meters of dark red crinkle taffeta out of a bargain bin for his outfit. Gross. I haven’t got Mel and Cindy settled yet.”

“Knackwurst? Pepperoni? A barbecued banger with grill-marks?”

They both collapsed laughing, and it was Kerri who stopped first.

“Things won’t ever be the same again, will they?” 

The New Year rolled around. It snowed in Paris. Alex let himself out of the Beaufort Technologies building and pulled the collar of his cashmere overcoat up past the polo neck of his cream lambs-wool jersey. Icy snowflakes drifted down in the frigid evening air.   

He’d spent Christmas with good friends, yet had felt alone. He’d enjoyed superb food and vintage wines, but knew he would have swapped them in an instant for a kebab and a beer with Kerri.

What was she doing? Probably celebrating with her friends at a New Year race meeting. Dressed in a short summer skirt and high heels. Showing off her legs. Losing money by the handful. 

And Gaston? Happy with his wife and daughters, out on the harbor in Sylvie. Or supervising the making of sandcastles on a warm breezy beach. 

Alex pressed his lips together as he strode back to his apartment. He lived so close to his main business premises he hadn’t bothered bringing his car, even in weather like this.

While his staff enjoyed a few days’ break with their families, their boss sat alone in his office, testing hypotheses, re-arranging complicated electronic sequences, killing time.

He knew it for what it was. Sure, there was always work to do, but the frantic intensity he’d driven himself at in the early years was no longer necessary. He should be on holiday too—somewhere warm.  

North Africa? He’d meant to go back to Morocco, but somehow, no.

Hawaii? The weather was always wonderful there, but if he planned on going that far he might as well head a little further south to Tahiti, or...

He shook his head with frustration as he climbed the three marble steps outside his apartment block near the Palais Royale. He waved the security tag at the sensor, waited for the heavy glass door to rumble open, and took the elevator to the penthouse.

Even there, in his private world, he found it hard to settle. He poured a brandy and prowled to the windows, barely seeing the icy city spread out in front of him as he sipped. He put on some old Santana—loud—and sank onto a suede-covered Italian sofa. The guitar soared, and finally Alex’s spirits soared too. All the way to the South Pacific. To New Caledonia, where maybe he could use the excuse of following up last year’s business presentations.  

And to Wellington, New Zealand—where a small infuriating woman intended appearing at a sunny city-wide party dressed as a sausage. 

He tipped his head back and closed his eyes as the music pounded around him. The weeks of frantic work and brittle socializing had done nothing for his temper. Kerri had shot his concentration to shreds. 

He’d expected to think of her with pleasure after the day on Sylvie. Presumed he’d be left with a warm glow of sexual satisfaction which would fade slowly to a lower level, and then subside to the vaguest of memories. 

Why the hell had he asked her to meet him in Noumea?

She was still ripping at his composure with sharp claws. Still reminding him she was the one he hadn’t been able to resist. Still keeping him awake and aware and hungry. No-one else had ever done that, and now it seemed he wasn’t interested in letting anyone else get close enough to try.

He rose to his feet again, and paced the length of the beautiful room several times...finally took a deep breath. 

Yes, he should book a ticket and get away in time for the Sevens, he decided. Somehow get her out of his system.

The first weekend in February, wasn’t it?

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

He stood in Wellington’s sunshine and dug Kerri’s battered business card out of his jeans pocket for the millionth time. Having all her details accessible felt good. 

He hadn’t emailed or rung. Instead he’d decided to gauge the lie of the land and then decide whether to approach her or not. 

Who was he kidding? He’d flown half-way around the world to see her again. But he hoped to engineer a casual meeting instead of anything too formal.

The city buzzed on this fine Friday. The pre-Christmas banners and flags he remembered from his last visit had all been stripped away and replaced with Rugby Sevens promotion. Balloons and streamers flew from poles. Store windows echoed the rugby theme.

Alex stood back, tall enough to see over most heads. The streets were closed for the colorful parade. All around him groups of painted and costumed people roared approval as trucks and floats carried the visiting rugby players past. 

Bronzed Samoans and Tongans and Fijians danced and chanted. The contingent from Kenya drew huge applause. The team from Argentina brought a flurry of flag-waving and raucous singing from supporters with faces painted half blue/half white. Australian fans responded with a boozy chorus of ‘Waltzing Matilda’ as their boys swept by.

Alex yelled ‘Vive la France’ along with the rest for the French squad. English, Welsh and Scottish teams rolled through. Bagpipes skirled. Big blond South Africans hurled friendly insults at the North Americans. And the volume of cheers for the Kiwi team was loud enough to shake the trolley-bus wires.

If the players were happy, the crowds were delirious. Every way Alex turned, he saw groups in matching tropical-print shirts, or frizzy green wigs, or basketball uniforms, or animal costumes.

There were cowboys, dinosaurs, Indian chiefs, and skinny sumo wrestlers with their baggy bums on display. Belly dancers rubbed shoulders with Batmen and bus drivers. Three gangly teenagers sported tartan tights, garbage bags and top hats. 

His tricolor T-shirt seemed a tame effort now. 

And there wasn’t a sign of a sausage.